The Way of the Cross
by Miss Pookamonga
Summary: Fourteen stations. Fourteen stories. Fourteen different lives. One Man. One common road to the same Cross. And one common Hope to unite them all. COMPLETED! Random shouts of "Alleluia" are welcome.
1. The First Station

_Dear Readers,_

_The idea for this fic came to me early on in Lent, while I was attending the weekly Stations of the Cross at my church one Friday. At some point during that hour, I began thinking how interesting it would be to write a story connecting each of the stations of Jesus' journey to Calvary with a modern-day tale describing a situation in any everyday person's life that somehow relates to that station. So, this fic was born. I have to admit, some of the imagery of Jesus' tale I borrowed from Mel Gibson's _The Passion of the Christ_, because the cinematography of that film just works so perfectly with the story (in this chapter, the description of Claudia at the window is taken pretty much directly from the film). But that is not the important part. What is important is that no matter what the time, what the place, we all walk the road to Calvary in our own lives, stumbling and falling along the way. But we are never alone, because He walked it first before us, and He walks with us now, beside us, as we follow in His footsteps._

_Best Regards from a Bookworm and God Bless,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

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**The Way of the Cross **

* * *

_**I.**_

_**The First Station: Jesus Is Condemned to Death**_

* * *

"…'_I was born and came into the world for this one purpose, to speak about the truth. Whoever belongs to the truth listens to me.'_

'_And what is truth?' Pilate asked."_

—_John 18:37-38_

* * *

It was a day like any other day.

Or so it would seem, to the innocent bystander.

They were just children at recess, gathered together in a clump playing some silly game to amuse themselves.

But, oh, how wrong the innocent bystander often is, when looking at the world as if seeing it through a dark veil that conceals the truth lying outside its protection of deceit.

Children…they aren't born knowing how to be cruel to other human beings. But after years of observing the world around them with wide, once-innocent eyes, they learn the brutality practiced so often by their careless elders. And once they learn, they imitate. And once they imitate…well, the rest goes without saying.

And so the vicious cycle continues.

* * *

_Pontius Pilate sighed and surveyed the wild crowd tiredly, silently wishing the throng of screaming bodies would just disappear into thin air. He didn't want to deal with any of this. This situation was too disturbing, too far out of his league. Yes, he was quite used to sentencing criminals to suffer cruel deaths—he did have a reputation for being one of the most ruthless Roman military leaders, after all—but this man wasn't a criminal. In fact, he was the furthest from a criminal that Pilate could ever think of, and even more. What made it worse was that the man didn't make a single complaint against the malicious treatment he received from the mouths of his own people, but instead he just…_stood_ there, drinking it all in with his exceptionally sorrowful eyes. He was indeed the most perplexing human being the seasoned soldier had ever set eyes upon, and that bothered Pilate intensely._

"_Listen to them," Pilate whispered forcefully—and maybe a bit desperately—at the weak, bloodied form standing beside him. "Are you sure you aren't going to say anything to defend yourself?"_

_But, as the governor had expected, the man said nothing and merely looked at him with those _eyes_. Those eyes, laden with so much pain and indescribable suffering that Pilate couldn't bear to have to look at them. The expression in them made his stomach churn even more than it already was churning, and there was just something so incredibly perturbing about the matter, even more greatly perturbing than the entire situation of the man's trial had already played out to be. _

_It was like what had happened earlier that morning with Claudia._

"Please, husband," _he heard her trembling voice echo through his mind. _"Have nothing to do with him. My dream…I suffered much because of him and I do not wish to see these terrible visions become a dreadful reality. I beg of you…"

_She had been so terrified that her whole body had shaken violently in complete fear—he had never before seen his wife in such a state of total disrepair, and he had been deeply troubled by it. Pilate had never been one to pay much attention to dreams, but the terror in Claudia's voice and the way she had desperately clutched him struck a chord of dread within him, a dread that he knew wasn't going to dissipate until he threw the matter away completely. _

_Taking another glance at the silent man beside him, Pilate sighed wearily yet again. _

_There was only one thing to do. _

* * *

"You didn't _have _to tattle, you moron!"

Dominic backed up against the brick wall of the school building, keeping his head bowed towards the ground so that Greg Anderson wouldn't be able to see how scared he was. Anderson was the tallest, the loudest, the toughest, and the strongest kid in fourth grade and he had a way of making you scared if he really wanted to. The greatest satisfaction for him was seeing that look of sheer terror on another kid's face—he was such a monster that that kind of thing made him laugh. A long, loud, ugly laugh that sounded like the laugh of one of those evil villains from old horror movies.

Dominic hated that laugh with a passion, and he wasn't looking forward to hearing it again, especially if it was going to be directed at him this time.

He hadn't done anything wrong, he knew. In fact, he'd done what everybody always praised as the "right thing", the "good thing", "something to make your mother proud." He was a quiet kid—smart in school, but quiet—and he never spoke out about much of _anything_, but the other day had been too much. Anderson's devilish streak was so bad that he didn't give a darn about whom or what on God's green earthhe and his buddies chose to bully. Even if it happened to be a girl.

Picking on other boys his age was bad, but it wasn't as bad as picking on poor little Tammy McCree. She was a girl, for starters, and in addition to that, she was a tiny thing, as fragile as a little china doll or a fairy, and she had a way of making the worst out of anything awful that happened to her.

It hadn't been _fair_, huge ogre Anderson and his crew of vipers up against tiny, defenseless little Tammy. So Dominic, who never liked to interfere in anything, had decided to put a stop to it all before Tammy had gotten hurt.

Unfortunately for him, doing what the teachers were willing to give loads and loads of gold stars and blue ribbons for did not earn a good mark in Anderson's book.

"Do you know how much trouble I got in when I got home? Grounded. I'm _grounded_ and it's all your fault!" Anderson bellowed so loudly that Dominic's ears started ringing.

_Serves you right, _Dominic thought to himself, but he didn't say anything.

"Aren't you gonna say _anything_?! Huh? _Are you_?!"

Anderson was practically breathing down Dominic's face at that point. Dominic still didn't look up. He was feeling that painful feeling pushing up from the back of his throat and he knew with dread that he was going to cry if he looked up. He could _not _let Greg Anderson see him cry.

"Say something, Nicky!" yelled Jack Branson, one of the vipers.

"Yeah, say something!" taunted yet another one.

Dominic clamped his teeth together. _Don't look up, don't look up._

"LOOK at me!" screamed Anderson at the top of his lungs, thrusting his hand underneath Dominic's chin and forcing it upwards. Dominic whimpered instinctively, afterwards cursing himself for not holding it in.

"Oh, are you a _crybaby _now, Marchesi? Are you?" jeered Tam Lawrence from somewhere behind Anderson's back.

"Crybaby, crybaby, crybaby!" they all began to chant, their voices growing louder and louder and louder with every shout.

Dominic's strength faltered, and suddenly he felt as if all the boys were closing in on him like wolves cornering their prey. He was going to cry, he knew it. He couldn't hold it in. Oh, he was such a baby.

"You _know _I don't like people who tattle on me," growled Anderson as his pack continued to chant like this was some sort of evil ceremony.

Dominic gulped, desperately trying to hold back the tears of fear from running down his face.

"And I'm gonna make sure you don't do it again."

* * *

_Pilate stepped out onto the terrace, the man called Jesus near his side. The crowd erupted into a frenzy upon their entrance, and within seconds the din was so loud that Pilate couldn't even hear himself breathing. By the gods, he hoped this would be settled soon._

"_Behold the man!" he yelled out over the racket, thrusting his arm in Jesus' direction. At that, the crowd burst into another wave of frenetic screaming._

_Pilate took a quick glance at Jesus. The man was staring into the crowd, head bowed, eyes deep in thought…or prayer…or something like that. Pilate wasn't quite sure._

_He turned back to the crowd. "Here is your king!" he shouted, straining his voice. "What do you want me to do with him?"_

_It started from somewhere at the back of the mob—perhaps a single voice or a group of them—and then suddenly the entire mass of people were screaming the same incriminating words over and over again._

"_Crucify him! Crucify him!" they shrieked, the bodies pulsing malevolently with every cry._

_Pilate inwardly groaned at the response. "Do you want me to release to you Barabbas? The _murderer_?!" By Jupiter, these people were insane._

"_Free Barabbas! Free Barabbas!" the vile bodies screamed wildly._

"_You want me to crucify your king?"_

"_We have no king but Caesar!"_

_Pilate cursed to himself and motioned to one of his guards as he backed towards his seat. He settled down upon it as the guard rushed back with the bowl of water and placed it carefully on one of the stone arms. Another guard stepped to the opposite side of the chair, holding a cloth across his arm. _

_Finally, the moment of release. He could forget about this business and carry on as if nothing had happened. _

_But as Pilate glanced towards the man wearing nothing but a purple robe and a crown of sharp thorns, something stirred inside the governor, and he didn't feel as relieved as he knew he should have been. _

_He shook it off. It would do no good to ponder over the matter any further._

_So, taking a deep breath, he raised his hand to silence the crowd. Fortunately, it took them only seconds to respond._

_When the angry cries had died down completely, Pilate finally opened his mouth to speak. "I cannot condemn an innocent man," he declared firmly. "I find no fault in him." He looked at Jesus again. The man was still staring at the crowd with his head bowed low. "But, since you are so adamant about putting him to death, I am handing him over to you. He is one of you, and you are the ones who find him so deserving of punishment. So go ahead—I will let my soldiers crucify him for you if you wish, and I will release Barabbas to you." He dipped his hands into the water, avoiding looking at Jesus' frail form standing at the edge of the steps. "But know this," he said very deliberately as he lifted his dripping hands from the bowl, motioning to the other guard to hand him the cloth, "I take no responsibility for these things. May the guilt fall upon all of you for condemning him to an unjust death, and see to it that if any ill fortune should befall you because of this, you do not come running to me with the blame." He wrung his hands on the cloth and then handed it back to the guard._

_There. It was finished._

_The crowd roared deafeningly in victory._

_And Jesus of Nazareth…he remained motionless. Staring intently into the crowd._

_Pilate stood up reluctantly and motioned to the guards to take the man away. They seized him roughly by the arms and began to drag him, the man still showing no signs of protest. It was astonishing. He was going to die the most horrible of deaths, and yet he didn't even cry out in indignation or anguish. _

_Just silence. Utter silence._

_Pilate gulped, wishing for the churning in his stomach to subside. Never before in his life as a soldier had he ever cared so much about the guilt or innocence of a convicted man._

_And this man…yes, yes he was fully innocent of any crime._

_But so was he. He'd washed his hands of it all, hadn't he?_

_Out of the corner of his eye, Pilate suddenly caught a glance of Claudia at her bedroom window as she surveyed the chaotic scene below. Her eyes suddenly met his. For a split second they held his gaze, and he expected her to nod in approval of his actions._

_But instead she lowered her head mournfully and turned away, disappearing behind the wall of stone._

* * *

Everything happened so fast that Dominic didn't even have time to react.

One minute he had been pushed up against the wall of the school, Greg Anderson's hand clenched around his chin and the pack closed in around him, cutting him off from the rest of the world. And then the next, he was suddenly being dragged violently across the ground by what seemed like hundreds of clawing arms and legs.

Dominic cried out in pain as he felt the rough pavement of the parking lot scrape against his skin. The boys, like wild animals, dragged him even harder and even faster, yanking and pushing him this way and that as Dominic struggled to break free.

"Stop it, _stop it_!" he screamed, wriggling against the iron grip that Anderson and Tam Lawrence had around his arms. Someone suddenly kicked him in the ribs, and he screamed yet again.

The tears were flowing freely now. There was no way he could hold them back against the pain.

"Crybaby, crybaby!" they chanted viciously, wagging their tongues in his face.

"_Shuddup! Lemme go!" _

"Oh, the only place you're going is The Cell. And you're not gettin' out either. I'll just tell Mrs. Morrison that you decided to play hooky and then you'll be in real trouble," sneered Anderson devilishly.

No. Not The Cell.

The Cell was a makeshift prison Anderson and his pack had built out of rocks, tree branches, and old boards of wood at the far edge of the playground, just past where the woods sprung up. It was awfully dark in those trees, and The Cell made it even worse because the boys had made it so that the branches and boards blocked out most of whatever light could make it past the tree canopy. And it was always kept guarded by at least two of the bigger boys, so if you tried to escape they'd just beat you up and shove you back into the little fort.

Getting sent to The Cell was the worst fate any kid at the school could possibly dream of, and it was reserved only for those who _really _made Anderson mad. Really mad. Which Anderson definitely was.

"You scared of The Cell?" jeered some of the boys as they dragged him through the leaves to the little prison in the woods. "You a scaredy-cat, Marchesi?"

Dominic didn't say anything. He was already crying too much.

"See, _this _is what you get for being a tattle-tale on Gregory Anderson," growled the bully as he shoved Dominic into The Cell. Dominic whimpered as the stinging in his legs suddenly grew sharper, and Tam and Jack spat at him.

"Crybaby scaredy-cat!" they teased, and the rest of the pack joined in chanting.

"Crybaby scaredy-cat! Crybaby scaredy-cat!"

Dominic curled up into a ball and hid his head in his knees so that he wouldn't have to see their faces mocking him.

"You see, he won't do it again. I guarantee that," Dominic heard Anderson say loudly to the little crowd. Then he heard the crumple of leaves as Anderson knelt down and leaned towards him. "That's what you get for messing with me. That's what you get, Marchesi."

And then it happened.

He laughed.

That loud, crazy laugh that only villains in old horror movies could do.

Dominic scrunched himself up even tighter as the rest of boys began howling with their own beastly laughter. He wished they would go away and leave him alone. He wished that recess could miraculously end that moment. He wished that an asteroid could crash into that very spot and crush all of Anderson's gang flat.

But none of that was going to happen, he knew. He was stuck there, blubbering like a little baby as the other boys laughed at him as if he was some kind of joke.

So much for doing the right thing.


	2. The Second Station

_Dear Readers,_

_This may possibly be the most controversial thing I've ever written, but given the context of this particular station, I felt driven to write it. Yes, I understand that many people have been told different things about this issue, but no matter what you believe, I hope you at least take this point to heart--what happens to the young woman in this part of my story DOES happen to people like her, and these types of occurences will only increase (in the U.S. at least), if the government votes to pass the "Freedom of Choice Act" (FOCA). Stories like hers are never told to the general public, and they NEED to be told. So no matter what your view, please understand that what happens to her is not a fabrication of a fanatically conservative imagination. It happens, and people deserve to know the truth about the burden these people bear every day._

_Best regards from a bookworm and God Bless,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

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_**II.**_

_**The Second Station: Jesus Takes Up His Cross**_

* * *

_"'If you want to come with me, you must forget yourself, take up your cross every day, and follow me. For if you want to save your own life, you will lose it, but if you lose your life for my sake, you will save it.'"_

_—Luke 9:23-24_

* * *

Marica pulled the car to the edge of the curb and swiftly parked, despite the fact that the road was slick with water. Outside, the rain fell steadily upon the earth, bathing everything in sight. That was all right for the spring flowers, Marica figured, but for her mood—well, the gloomy weather wasn't exactly doing wonders for it.

The young woman turned off the ignition, unbuckled her seatbelt, and then let her back flop against the car seat. She sighed heavily and shut her eyes, attempting to block out the images and sounds of the rain drumming on the windshield.

It wasn't fair, she knew. No matter what the law might say—or rather, what the lawmakers wanted the law to say—it wasn't right, and none of it was her fault.

When she thought about it, really, there hadn't even been a choice for her. She knew where she stood and she'd stand there until the end of time if she had to. The matter was clear-cut for her, no matter what the cost.

Even if the cost was losing her job.

But still, even knowing that she'd borne her burden well and had obeyed every rule of conscience within her…that still couldn't erase the pain and fury of rage against injustice cutting sharply through her whole being. It was wrong, it was utterly ridiculous, it shouldn't have happened.

But it had, and now she was left alone, wondering where to turn next.

* * *

_They shoved the long wooden beam upon His back and He stumbled forward, struggling to brace Himself against its weight. His knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle underneath Him, but He was able to steady Himself before they did so, although just barely. _

_John watched helplessly as the man he had called his Master, his Teacher…his dearest and closest Friend, fought to carry the great burden upon His shoulders. The apostle wanted nothing more than to rush towards Him and knock the plank of wood to the ground to free Him from the unbearable pain. But it was no use. The crowd was too thick with restless bodies, and the soldiers were bellowing curses and thrusting their spears and swords towards anyone who dared to inch too close to Him._

_He was isolated amid the sea of people, completely and utterly alone despite the fact that He was surrounded by hundreds._

_No one, not even those sobbing and screaming for the soldiers to have pity on Him, seemed to be able to share the amount of suffering that had been laid upon Him._

_John grit his teeth and tightened his arm around his Master's Mother, who was shuddering with sobs upon seeing the dehumanized figure who was her Son. Behind her was Mary Magdalene, she with tears streaming down her own face as her hands gripped the Mother's shoulders. The mass of bodies pushed and strained against them as He began to walk down the dusty road, the movement threatening to suffocate them. John, as quickly as he could, positioned himself behind both women and encircled his arms protectively around them, nudging them along through the crowd carefully before any over-eager soul could trample them._

_A little ways ahead of them, He was dragging his feet step by step through the sand, hunched over under the load of cross. To John it seemed as if the wood was growing heavier and heavier with each step, for His posture would falter just a little more as He continued to move forward. John could hear His anguished moans of pain even over the deafening noise of the crowd, and with each one, the apostle felt his heart shatter into millions of little shards at the agony in His voice. His Mother and Mary Magdalene began to cry harder, and he pulled them closer to him in comfort. _

_The man had done nothing wrong. He was the most innocent person John knew, and ever since John had met Him three years before, the young apostle had felt more alive than he ever had in his whole life prior to the day of their first encounter. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was that his Teacher had given him, but as far as John knew, it was the greatest gift he had ever received, a priceless gem to be treasured for all eternity. And yet _He _was the one being forced to haul the burden alone, to walk underneath its crushing weight until He met his death upon the hill. _

_In guilt and shame, John hung his head, hiding the tears that had begun to spill down his own face._

* * *

Marica bit her lip, trying desperately to keep back the tears threatening to break through her stronghold. But it was no use. Her resistance collapsed, and she began to sob, the full weight of her action crashing over her like a cold wave from the icy sea. She shouldn't be crying over this, she knew—she should be proud of herself for what she had done, yet the sorrow still lingered like the grey clouds hanging murkily in the sky.

Marica buried her head in her hands, still quivering with sobs. _You did the right thing_, she told herself repeatedly. But it just wasn't enough to dispel the disbelief and agony.

Dr. Michaels was a good man, a trustworthy doctor. A wonderful boss, and an understanding companion. She hadn't been at the hospital for very long, but he had always treated her like a worthy peer and an accomplished professional, taking her under his wing and guiding her through the ropes of the new job like a caring mentor. Marica had paid him the utmost respect for his kindness and generosity, overjoyed that she had finally landed a position with amiable co-workers, an excellent reputation, and of course, an extraordinarily wonderful salary. It had the first time since her husband had left that Marica had felt entirely secure with her life, finally having been able to push aside her fears of losing the house, or worse, her daughter Vivienne.

But for all his compassionate and understanding ways, Dr. Michaels and his fellow comrades on the Board hadn't understood her on this one thing.

Of course _this_ hadto be the thing to bring her hopes and dreams tumbling into a heap of rubble.

But she could not, would not, and would never take part in performing an abortion.

It was gruesome, vile, and ugly practice, and Marica had sworn never to be involved in it. Looking at her own daughter Vivienne, she couldn't stand the thought of being the one to stoically rip a baby's limbs apart or burn it to death with a saline solution. She was a mother, and to methodically kill a child for _any _purpose would brand her a hypocrite. How could she take joy in the vibrant life of her own child if she had mercilessly killed another woman's just to keep her status at work?

They'd asked her to do it, and of course she'd said no.

And they'd fired her.

All because she had obeyed her conscience.

Marica knew that not everyone shared the same thoughts and beliefs as her. For the life of her, should couldn't understand why anyone would support such a horrible thing, but she mostly stayed quiet about it at work because the matter didn't come up very often, and when it did, it started heated arguments among the other doctors and nurses. But to punish someone just because she refused to compromise her faith and moral standards in any situation was an injustice worthy to be rallied against. All the great people in history were praised for standing up for their beliefs, for fighting head-to-head with the unjust rules imposed by society. They always told little kids to stand up for what was right, and the teachers always rewarded them for standing up to a bully or something of that nature.

She had done nothing different from any of that…so why was she being _punished_?

Fine, the other doctors could say yes if they wanted to, for whatever reasons. But people in the workplace were supposed to _respect _your moral standards even if they didn't necessarily agree with them. They weren't supposed to fire you if you didn't conform to their way of thinking.

Marica sniffed and lifted her head back up to stare despondently at the rain. She didn't regret what she'd done, but now an intense load had been forced upon her shoulders and she would have to bear it for as long as the medical world kept rejecting her.

"Oh, God," she whispered through drying tears, as the rain began to pelt the car even more forcefully. "I can't carry this alone."


	3. The Third Station

_Dear Readers,_

_This third installment is based somewhat on personal experience. For all those with anxiety disorders--the Lord is there for you when you fall, even though you may not feel Him there. God Bless._

_Best regards from a Bookworm,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

**_

* * *

III._**

_**The Third Station: Jesus Falls the First Time**_

* * *

_"We believed that we could change ourselves  
The past could be undone  
But we carry on our backs the burden  
Time always reveals  
The lonely light of morning  
The wound that would not heal  
It's the bitter taste of losing everything  
That I have held so dear_

I've fallen...  
I have sunk so low  
I have messed up  
Better I should know  
So don't come round here  
And tell me I told you so..."

_—from the song "Fallen" by Sarah McLachlan_

* * *

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

And she was terrified.

What hurt wasn't the way they stared at her when she went to speak up at the front of the classroom. What hurt wasn't the knowledge that the teacher was staring just as intently at her from his desk.

What hurt was the way her own mind attacked her whenever she had to do something like this.

_It won't be perfect_, it told her. _You'll mess up. You can't talk in front of people. You'll just shake and quiver and make a fool of yourself, and you'll feel guilty for days. _

And she believed it.

It was like some kind of monster lurking in the shadows of her own consciousness, pouncing when it sensed a weakness. She could never shake the overbearing weight of it away, never banish it into the darkness where it belonged. It always slinked out when she least expected it to and then it attacked, leaving her utterly helpless in its grasp.

She had a therapist, yes. But she'd just started seeing said therapist, and well, therapy took a long time before it had any visible effects. Or that was what she'd been led to believe, anyway.

Sometimes the weight of this burden was just too much.

And so she fell.

* * *

_His knees were going to give way. She knew that instinctively upon seeing him round the corner. His face, marred by blood and sweat and tears, arched dangerously closer towards the ground as the wood pressed harder upon His weary shoulders. He couldn't make it, he wasn't going to make it. He was going to fall._

_"Oh, my Lord," Mary Magdalene murmured under her breath as she watched His foot slip beneath Him, sending Him hurtling towards the dusty street. _

_He cried out in agony as the weight of the wood crushed His torso to the ground, splaying His blood-spattered form across the dirt. He coughed violently, blood spluttering along the dirt as He did so. His wearied hand clenched and flexed in a desperate attempt to grab at the ground and push Himself back up, but a soldier suddenly strode up to Him and aggressively struck Him with a whip, causing Him to collapse back into the dust. The soldier cursed and spat, his comrades joining in the mockery and torture, as the crowd surged with piercing screams of accusation and frantic pleas for mercy. _

_Mary squeezed her eyes shut as the sobs continued to wrack her body. How did they expect Him to get up again if they kept crowding around Him, deriding Him and whipping Him mercilessly, draining every ounce of strength from His body and soul? It was unbearable. Mary didn't want to open her eyes again and see the soldiers kicking and screaming at His poor face, but she forced herself to, sobbing even harder as she did so. _

_It was all she could do to repay Him for the life He had given back to her._

* * *

Audrina fought to keep her tears under control as she dashed to the girl's bathroom in shame and fear. She rushed into the stall at the farthest end of the bathroom and slammed the door behind her, making sure that it was locked before settling against the tile wall and sinking down to the cold floor below.

She laid her head against her knees and sobbed.

Why did she have to let the monster take over again? Why did she have to pretend she was feeling sick so she didn't have to endure the even more crippling fear of hearing its roars and whispers of deceit while she stood stuttering at the front of the class? Why was she so terrified of such a simple little task? _Why?_

Audrina hugged her knees to her chest as she suddenly felt a cold chill run down the length of her spine. Why was it that what was so easy for others was for her the equivalent of facing a raging battle in which she was so sure that she would die? She was _fourteen. _Not a little kid anymore, not a child who could be allowed to make silly excuses for being "too shy" to do something. Sure, everyone had some bit of stage fright. But Audrina? Oh, the term "stage fright" was the biggest understatement of the century in her case. She should've gotten over something like that by now. Everybody else had. Why was it just as bad as—or even worse than—it had been before, when she'd been little?

Like so many times before, Audrina felt the weight of it all come crashing down upon her, pinning her down so that every effort to pick herself up was thwarted by pain or fear of pain. She sniffed and shifted her head so that her cheek was pressed against her knee. She'd tried so many times before to push the menacing monster away, to stand up without faltering, to face the giant and just get through something like this. But she'd always slipped and fallen back into the dark hole the agonizing fear had dug for her long ago. She'd spent so much time huddled in that hole that it had ironically become like a second home to her.

Some home. It was barren and cold, empty promises evaporating before her and leaving her alone with no one nearby except the monster, who never ceased its incessant jeering.

She wanted desperately to tell someone how all this felt, what it was like to spend her life tripping over her own feet and falling headlong into hopeless darkness. But no one could understand, not even her own friends, not even her family. They were all _normal_. They couldn't possibly comprehend something like this. Not even her therapist could be expected to _fully _understand the anguish she endured every day.

She was completely and utterly alone amidst a world of people who could never understand.

But suddenly, she spied the silver ring on her finger glinting in the dim light above the stall. Etched into it was a tiny little cross, and circling all around the band were little words in swirling cursive—the barely readable words of a verse from her favorite psalm. "Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil…"

Maybe there_ was_ someone who understood.

* * *

_Mary watched in agony as the soldiers continued to scoff at Jesus' prostrate form in the dust. She tried to meet His eyes somehow, to let Him know that she was aching for Him, that she wanted desperately to help Him but couldn't. But His eyes were lifted upward, towards the heavens…_

_No. No, they were gazing into the faces of His tormentors._

_Mary gave in to a fresh wave of tears. Even in His pain He was pitying _them_, not Himself._

_Somehow, despite shouts and shoves of the ruthless soldiers, Jesus slowly began to ease Himself up off the ground, straining as hard as He could to lift Himself with His weak knees. As His body began to rise, the shouts and screams taunting Him grew even louder, but He bravely continued to push with all His might. For a moment His body shook, and Mary feared that He would suddenly collapse again. But He persevered, trembling against the terrible weight of the wood, until He was standing yet again, risen from the dust of the earth. _

_Mary clutched at her robes as He began to walk forward once more, the soldiers goading Him on like some kind of work animal. He had risen from the fall, yes, but there was a long road ahead of Him, a grim fate awaiting Him at its end._

_"My Lord," she whispered yet again, and pressed on through the crowd as John's hand guided the way._

* * *

Audrina shut her eyes tightly and tried to block out any random images that came into her mind as she focused intently on her goal. _Oh, God, _she prayed desperately, her heart knowing that somewhere He could hear her, _Let me be able to do this. Just this once. Please._

Over and over and over. She kept repeating it. The more she said it the more He would reassure her that she could do it, that she could get up off that filthy floor and march into that classroom with as much confidence as she could muster. She knew He would. She had to trust that He would. She could do this. She could.

From somewhere in the deep recesses of the dark hole, she heard the desperate cry of the monster, screaming protests against her attempt to gather courage. It cursed and spat and flung every possible derisive word it could at her fragile spirit, but Audrina chose not to be broken. She was trembling, yes. Struggling, yes. Pushing against the self-deprivation with all her inner strength and aching with the pain of effort. But maybe, just maybe, she _could _do this.

She couldn't win all her battles, she knew, but for now, one victory would be enough.


	4. The Fourth Station

_Dear Readers,_

_This is my favorite chapter so far. I love writing about Jesus' mother Mary...she's just such a wonderful subject to write about and so easily relatable. This is for all the mothers out there...and those that will be some day. Once again, God Bless, and don't forget to drop a review._

_Best Regards from a Bookworm,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

**_

* * *

IV._**

_**The Fourth Station: Jesus Meets His Mother**_

* * *

_"Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother, 'This child is chosen by God for the destruction and the salvation of many in Israel. He will be a sign from God which many people will speak against and so reveal their secret thoughts. And sorrow, like a sharp sword, will [pierce] your own heart.'"_

_—Luke 2:34-35_

* * *

Deirdre approached the door to little Timmy's room cautiously, tiptoeing so as not to cause the floorboards to creak. Carefully, she laid her hand against the wood of the door, easing it open just a crack. She peered through the darkness and caught sight of her son's face pressed against his pillow, his small hand clutching the blanket just below his chin. She let a tiny sigh escape her lips at the peaceful scene before her, but it was laced with fear rather than relief.

Slowly she slipped past the doorway and towards Timmy's bed, where she sat down upon the boy's treasured blue blanket and leaned over to lay a hand against his little cheek. It was so cold. Deirdre instinctively pulled at the covers and tucked them more tightly around the tiny child to keep him warmer. Then she lowered herself onto the bed until her head was resting next to his on his pillow, and she gathered his own little head in her arms and cuddled it against her chest.

Timmy let out a soft whimper and snuggled into the new source of comfort before settling back down again and drifting off into a land of dreams. Deirdre watched his eyes flutter rapidly behind the delicate eyelids, and she momentarily pondered what he was envisioning while he lay still in her arms.

She hoped that it was something pleasant, something magical and beautiful, something to take him far away from the pain of his everyday life.

Timothy was Deirdre's first son, her only son, her only child. After years of trying, years of discouraging doctor's reports about possible infertility, she had finally conceived and had later given birth to the small but healthy baby boy who had now grown into a curious and energetic five-year-old. She and Sean, her husband, had been more than overjoyed at the arrival of their long-awaited son, the greatest blessing she and he had ever received. He was the highlight of their marriage, the bright ray of sunlight dispelling the shadows of drudgery in their otherwise dull adult lives. Every day was a new adventure with him, every day was an opportunity for him to open doors and windows for them through which they could gaze upon something amazing and glorious. Timmy's presence made the world around them glow with promise, when it had once been clouded with a grey veil of indifference.

But now…now things had suddenly darkened again, and this time, the clouds were even blacker than before.

Deirdre threaded her fingers through her son's thin hair, trying to distract herself from the thoughts and memories of the past few weeks. Maybe it hadn't really happened. Maybe that fateful visit to the doctor was just a figment of her over-active imagination. But deep in her heart she knew that everything she desperately wished could be a mere nightmare was real, and that no matter how hard she tried to pretend that it wasn't, the truth would always be right there in front of her face, haunting her with its agonizing horror.

_"Why Timmy? Why him? Why?"_ she had sobbed every day, every night, begging for some sort of answer. But none seemed to come.

The anguished mother laid her cheek against her son's head and gently began to rock him in her arms, hoping, asking, praying for the answer she had been searching unceasingly for for what now seemed an entire lifetime. There was a reason for this, she knew. Somehow, somewhere through all this suffering that had pierced the heart of her family she knew there was a hidden purpose.

She only wished that she knew what it was.

* * *

_She craned her neck over the fanatical crowd, searching desperately for a break in the suffocating sea of frenzy. She needed to get to Him somehow, to run to Him and gather His broken body in her arms, to rock Him like she had when He had been just a little child, to tell Him it was all right and that she was there, would always be there and would never let Him go. _

_She glimpsed sight of Him through the thick layers of bobbing heads as He dragged his bloody feet through the sand, body quaking under the cracks of the whips, the unbearable weight of the wood, and the piercing derision of the shouts and screams condemning Him. "My Son…" she breathed through her tears as she watched Him stumble step-by-step, heaving the burden just a little farther. _

_She turned to John, utter desperation pleading through her eyes. John gazed sorrowfully at her and without a word, he nodded in understanding and began pushing through the crowd to find a way to Him. _

_It was only then that she finally understood the prophet's words._

"He will be a sign from God which many people will speak against and so reveal their secret thoughts. And sorrow, like a sharp sword, will pierce your own heart…"

_She took another glance at her suffering Son, and the sword plunged through her._

* * *

_"Mommy, am I going to die?"_ Timmy had asked once, after one of the now periodical visits to the hospital. Deirdre remembered feeling her heart surge at the innocent question and she recalled having to force the surge of tears back into her throat in order to answer.

_"No,"_ she had said defiantly, as if trying to tell God not to take her son away. _"No, you're not. You're going to get better."_

He had turned away from her then, staring off into the distance with a strange look in his eyes. For a few moments he had been silent, just staring, and Deirdre feared for what thoughts could have been possibly running through his head at that moment. Then, he had suddenly turned his little face back to peer up at hers, and for a split second she had felt as if he had somehow become the wise adult and she the naïve child.

_"I'm ready, you know,"_ he had said in a soft but determined voice that shouldn't have been coming from a five-year-old. _"If I'm going to die. Jesus will take care of me."_

It had taken all her strength not to cry.

"Oh, my son," she whispered through the darkness as the familiar hot tears ran down her face and she hugged Timmy even closer to her, "I know you're ready. But I'm not."

* * *

_There, just beyond the walls of the alley. An opening._

_She felt it there before she saw it._

_"Mother," John whispered—for that was what everyone called her. "Mother, there." _

_Suddenly, she froze. She could see Him coming up through the crowd as the soldiers and bystanders pressed in around them, arms waving amidst the screams. His face was closer than it had ever been since that dreadful morning, and something surged up inside her as she watched the blood and sweat pour down His skin. She remembered, somewhere in her mind, His angelic little face when He had been a child, streaked with dirt from Joseph's workshop, sawdust clinging to the curls framing His sparkling eyes. _

"Mama!" _He would say excitedly, hopping restlessly from one foot to the other._ "Come see what Abba and I made!" _And He would dart off to where Joseph had finished working, and her husband would look up and wink knowingly at her as the little boy would glance from him to His mother, eagerly awaiting her joyous response._

_His name escaped her lips, and suddenly, she was running._

_Running towards Him, running through the parted sea of people, running until her arms flung themselves around His frail body. _

_"Jesus, Jesus, my Son!" she cried, grabbing his bloodstained face in her hands. "I'm here. I'm here."_

_His eyes met hers and another sob forced its way out at the indescribable agony burning in them. Oh, how could He be carrying so much in His soul like this? Why did He choose to? Why didn't He let go of any of it?_

_"Mama…" He whispered weakly, remnants of the little child's voice hanging in the air. _

_"I'm here," she murmured, stroking His cheek. "I'm here."_

_"Pray for…them..." He croaked, boring His gaze into Hers. "…I will…make all things…new…" His voice trailed off as He straightened His body as much as He could and slipped out of her arms to press forward._

_"I will…I will…my Son…" she sobbed as Her little boy was ripped away from her once more. _

"And now, you will bear a Son. And you will name Him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called Son of the Most High…the Holy Spirit will come upon you…and the Child to be born will be holy, called Son of God…"

_She shut her eyes as the memory faded._

_"Let it be done to me according to Your Word."_

* * *

Every night she would come to Timmy's room like this and hold him in her arms as she begged God to help her understand. Or, at least, to help her accept this ordeal that she couldn't comprehend. She couldn't blame Him…there was a reason for everything, a greater purpose, and she had to trust that there was one for this too.

"'Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,'" she whispered, hoping that somewhere, somehow, she would be able to see or hear an answer.

Timmy shifted his head against her chest and murmured something quietly in his sleep. She gazed sadly down at him. He was so calm, so peaceful. He was the child, he was the one who should be terrified, but he wasn't and instead she was. "I wish I could be like you," she sighed before kissing his forehead.

Deirdre lifted her glassy eyes away from her son and absently scanned the dark room. She suddenly caught sight of something perched on Timmy's dresser, next to his little mirror. She tilted her head to get a better a view of it, and when she was finally able to make out what it was, a tiny smile suddenly crept across her face. It was his little drawing of Mary and Jesus that he'd made around Christmastime that one afternoon, after having played in the snow all morning.

_"Look, Mommy,"_ he'd said eagerly, waving the drawing in her face after it had been finished. _"Look what I drew."_

She'd taken the paper from his hand and had smiled, amused, at the crude crayon outlines and scribble. _"It's very beautiful,"_ she had remarked, handing it back to him.

_"It's Mary and Jesus!"_ he had explained exuberantly, pointing to the figures in the picture. _"That's Mary and she's carrying Jesus. See?"_

_Yes, I see,_ Deirdre now thought to herself. She glanced back down at Timmy's sleeping form. "I see now."

And she laid her cheek against his head once more and closed her eyes.


	5. The Fifth Station

_Dear Readers,_

_This is my second favorite chapter. For some reason the side story just seemed to grow on me...I might even turn it into its own whole story after I'm done with this. But anyway, here's the fifth part--God Bless and please don't hesitate to review._

_Best regards from a bookworm,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

**

* * *

V.**

_**The Fifth Station: Simon of Cyrene Is Forced to Take Up the Cross**_

* * *

_"…but remember, I'm an innocent man, forced to carry the cross of a condemned man."_

_—Simon of Cyrene, from_ The Passion of the Christ

* * *

She sat on the edge of the park bench, her legs swinging back and forth like a child's. Her hands lay clenched around the cloth of her skirt, and she was gazing off into the distance, seeing something that wasn't there.

Alex walked up to her slowly, afraid of startling her. Something about her posture told him that something wasn't right. He could feel its foreboding presence hanging thickly in air around them, and his stomach began to do back-flips at the sense of whatever-it-was.

"Hey," he said quietly, once he'd reached the bench. He carefully sat down. "There you are."

Maia's eyes flitted towards him briefly before looking away again. "Hi," she murmured so softly that he could barely hear her. Yes, something was definitely going on.

"I thought you were joining me for lunch," Alex continued cautiously, hoping she wouldn't think he was scolding her for standing him up.

"Sorry," she muttered apologetically, bowing her head to stare at her hands. "I should've texted you or something."

He smiled and shook it off. "It's okay. I figured you'd be…around here somewhere."

She laughed a little bit at the inside joke. Maia was almost always at the student common in her free time. She had a thing for feeding the pigeons. When she was around those birds, she felt more alive than she ever was in any other part of her life…she felt as if she could take off and fly along with them, away from every monotonous thing that tied her down to earth. Alex knew that she felt more comfortable around them than she was with most people; sometimes, when he watched her feeding them, he would get the sense that she felt that they seemed to understand her more than other people did.

But strangely, today, there were no pigeons surrounding her like usual. Today she was all alone.

"You okay?" Alex asked softly as Maia bit her lip and looked away again.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine." Her voice was completely deadpan.

Alex scooted a bit closer to her. "You don't sound fine."

There was a silence that settled over them then, but not the peaceful kind that surrounded them whenever they were at the park together and he was watching her absorb herself in feeding her little winged friends. It was heavy, like deadweight, and Alex could feel it pressing against them from all sides, trying to suffocate them.

"I'm just…tired," Maia sighed suddenly, refusing to look at him.

She certainly sounded exhausted. But that wasn't everything. He could tell by the weight of her voice.

"You can tell me, you know," he said in an almost-whisper, hoping she'd give in. That uncomfortable feeling of worry was stirring up inside him, and her silence was making it grow worse.

What was bothering her? A million different things rushed through his head, and he threw himself against them, trying to push the disturbing thoughts away. He couldn't let his imagination get the better of him.

"It's nothing," Maia finally said, refusing to look at her friend.

"You know you're not going to get away with that," Alex replied seriously, laying a hand on her arm. "Come on," he urged softly. "You always tell me everything."

"I can't," she suddenly snapped, shifting away from him.

He was startled by the abrupt change of mood, but he brushed it off and pressed on. "Maia…you know I'm not going anywhere until you tell me."

That unsettling silence fell over them again, and he waited.

* * *

_"You!"_

_Simon stopped dead in his tracks, startled by the voice. Surely the soldier didn't mean_ him, _did he?_

_"Hey! I'm talking to you!"_

_Simon turned his head reluctantly, meeting the angry face of the Roman soldier yelling up at the frenzied crowd. The soldier's eyes caught his, and Simon felt his stomach plummet in dread. The man_ was _talking to him._

_"What do you want?" he snapped gruffly, drawing himself up as he tried to appear tougher than he felt. _

_"This man can't carry his cross by himself anymore," growled the soldier loudly over the shrieks of the crowd. "Go help him."_

_Simon looked up as the soldier motioned to the man in question. There, just a few paces behind him and surrounded by a throng of sobbing women and laughing soldiers, lay a man in the dust. If the figure lying in the dust could have even been called a man. It was so covered with blood that if Simon hadn't caught sight of the man's brown tunic, he wouldn't have believed that the figure was human. _

_Simon cursed silently to himself. The man must have committed a terribly grievous crime to have already been reduced to nothing but blood and sores like that. He hadn't even been crucified yet._

_"Well?!"_

_The soldier's grating voice cut through Simon's thoughts and he met the Roman's piercing eyes again._

_"No," he replied firmly, staring the soldier down. "I have no business with a criminal like that. Go find someone else." And with that, he turned away as if to leave._

_But unexpectedly, the crowd surged towards him and roughly pushed him back, blocking his way._

_"Help him!" some of them screamed wildly. "Help him—he is innocent!"_

_Innocent? Simon threw a glance back at the bloodied form in the street. That man couldn't be. Not if he'd been scourged half to death by Pilate's soldiers._

_"Let me through!" he yelled angrily, thrusting his arms towards the throng of people and attempting to force his way past them._

_"YOU! Get back here!" the soldier suddenly shouted furiously. Simon spun back around again. _

_"I_ told _you, I have no busine—"_

_"I don't care_ what _you say is or isn't your business! You get down here and help him, you filthy Jew!"_

_Simon felt a burning rage shoot through his body at the insult, and, clenching his fists tightly, he stepped down towards the soldier. _

_"Fine," he snarled back, the flames of fury licking around his voice and his eyes plunging daggers into the other man's vile face. "I'll help him." He swirled around to face the screaming crowd. "But remember this—I'm not a criminal. I'm an innocent man, being forced to carry the cross of a condemned one!"_

_The crowd erupted into frenzy once more._

_Simon shot one last menacing glance at the soldier before angrily marching over to where the man lay still in the dust. Above him, the other soldiers stood poised with the wood, ready at any moment to place it upon someone's shoulders. Simon glanced warily up at the burden about to be forced upon him and then at the accused man. _

_He wasn't moving._

_"Are you sure he isn't dead?" Simon asked, turning to one of the soldiers. _

_"Idiot! Of course he isn't dead," one of them chuckled, stepping towards the figure on the ground. "See?" He jabbed the point of his spear into the man's side and the figure suddenly cried out loudly in pain, clutching uselessly at the ground. The soldiers roared with laughter._

_Simon grumbled, perturbed by the image before him, and knelt down to help the man up. He grabbed on to the bloody arm and heaved the body upward to a standing position. Then, he lifted his own arm and wrapped it around the wood as the other man's wearily looped around his. _

_And then their eyes met._

_Simon almost stumbled backward at the sight that met him. He had never seen eyes like that…so laden with suffering, searing with so much pain that far surpassed the agony of the bleeding wounds. He trembled suddenly, feeling the gaze strike through him as if the other man was looking into his very soul, reading every feeling, every thought, everything he had ever done._

_And suddenly, it hit him._

_This man_ was _innocent._

* * *

"I'm pregnant."

The words broke through the silence like a pick crashing through ice.

"What?!" The exclamation flew out of Alex's mouth before he could stop himself.

Maia jumped up from her seat and spun around furiously. "I'm pregnant, okay?" she nearly yelled, backing away from him. "There! I told you! Now you know!" She whirled around again so that her back was facing him.

Alex blinked in shock as he stared dumbly at Maia's back. _Pregnant?_ What? How could…she wasn't even seeing anybody!

Or was she?

"Maia…" he started, but she cut him off.

"Just…no. I don't need your judgment right now."

"Maia, I'm not _judging_ anything!" Alex yelled in exasperation, shooting up from the bench. "What…how…" He let out a sigh of frustration.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she snapped, still refusing to look at him. "I should've told you about Aaron…"

He heard her voice quaver, and then all of a sudden she burst into tears.

"Oh, Maia," he murmured, coming to wrap his arms around her as he buried her head in his chest.

"Oh, god, I don't even know why I did it," she cried as he hugged her even more tightly. "He's such a jerk. He doesn't even care…" Her voice trailed off into sobs again.

"It's okay, it's okay," Alex whispered softly, stroking her hair. His heart ached seeing her like this.

"Made me feel special, like I was the only one…god, I'm such an idiot," she wept bitterly. "When you're right there, all the time, all the…I had to pick _him_ and forget that I already had…" And then was crying so hard that she couldn't talk anymore.

"It's okay. It's going to be all right," Alex continued saying, rocking her in his arms. He walked her back to the bench and gently sat her down. "I'm here."

* * *

I'm here. I'm going to help you.

_As they trudged through the dusty street, past the screaming mob, Simon repeated the words over and over again in his head, hoping that the man could somehow know what he was saying and gain strength from the words. He was so weak, so alone…encouragement was the only thing Simon could give Him other than the help of carrying the cross. _

_It didn't make any sense. This man was innocent—Simon sensed it, he'd_ seen _it in the man's own eyes. Why, then, was He being forced to carry this burden that He obviously didn't deserve? _

_Simon felt the man's gaze upon him again and he turned to look back into those eyes. Once again, he was met with an unbearable barrage of sorrow and pain, so much pain that he couldn't stand to hold eye contact for very long. But at the same time, the man's eyes held in them a strange sense of peace amidst the agony, a peace Simon couldn't comprehend, although he could feel it pouring into him._

_"Almost there," he heard himself whisper, needing something to say._

_It was a futile statement, he suddenly realized as he glanced up at the hill before them. But still, it held the hope that the pain would be over soon, and that He wouldn't have to bear the burden any longer._

_It was then that he felt it._

I'm here. I'm going to help you.

_The words flooded through his own mind as he locked eyes with the man again. Sudden confusion fell over him as he realized that the man was…was speaking to_ him. _How…why…it was as if He was telling him with His gaze that_ he _was the one in need of help and not the other way around._ _But Simon wasn't the one suffering nearly as much as He. He couldn't understand what the man meant by that stare, that stare that held so much…_

_…and yet, the Cyrenian could feel Him reading every little hurt and pain stained upon his soul since the day he had been born. _

_How was it that a man going through such agony could care so much about someone else's trivial afflictions?_

_Moved with a sadness he couldn't quite explain, Simon tightened his arm around the man's. "Almost there," he whispered yet again. But this time, the words held more meaning than before._

_And so, they carried the Cross together._

* * *

"I don't know what to do," Maia whimpered softly after her crying had begun to subside. Alex's heart surged with pity at the incredible pain in her voice. She suddenly lifted her head to look up at him with tears still swimming in her swollen eyes. "I can't have an…I can't—"

"You don't have to," Alex interrupted. "I'll help you."

"What about school?"

"Don't worry about me," he said gently, placing a hand on her cheek. "I can handle it."

"You're a college freshman, Alex," she croaked. "College freshman can't handle anything. I mean…look at me."

Alex laughed at the all-too true statement. "You underestimate us," he replied, leaning his face towards hers.

She smiled a little bit at his laughter, but her face soon fell as the thoughts of dark worry fell upon her again. "How am I going to tell everybody?" she whispered, her voice quivering again. Her pained eyes searched Alex's for an answer.

Alex pulled her closer and then lifted his hands to cup her chin. "Maia, trust me. I'm going to help you, I promise that." She sniffed, a few tears escaping from her eyes again. He tenderly wiped them away with his thumbs. "You don't have to go through this alone."

Maia just stared at him for a second, taking in his words. Then, she slowly nodded and leaned her head back against his chest. "Thank you," she whispered, hugging Alex tightly.

"Don't," he replied, leaning his chin against her head. "It's what friends do."

As his gaze began to wander, he suddenly spied something fluttering down to the grass some yards away.

He smiled. It was a pigeon.


	6. The Sixth Station

_Dear Readers,_

_This is another one of my better chapters. Again, I'm probably copying off of Mel Gibson WAY too much with the Jesus scenes, but the imagery of that movie is so powerful that it just sticks. I hope you like this one--God Bless and don't hesitate to review._

_Best Regards from a Bookworm,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

**

* * *

VI.**

_**The Sixth Station: Veronica Wipes The Face of Jesus**_

* * *

_"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."_

_—Plato_

* * *

He came to school that day with a large purple bruise on his right cheek.

Everyone was startled by it when he walked into homeroom—Mrs. Florian was completely aghast—but Nate Higgins shrugged the matter off grumpily, muttering that he'd fallen of his bike or something, and then went to sulk at his desk.

Laureline Chalmers studied him intently from across the room.

Laureline didn't know that much about Nate. They weren't really friends—just schoolmates—and they'd hardly ever talked, except when they'd been paired for school projects. He was a nice kid, friendly, neither too quiet nor too talkative, and he had a sharp mind too. Laureline had always admired that he was a hard worker who put effort into everything he did. But other than that, she knew nothing about who he was or what his life was like. Not that she'd particularly thought about those things before…but now she was beginning to wonder.

She'd heard stories on TV and read them in magazines—stories about kids who got beat up by their own parents. The stories horrified her, and she couldn't bear to think about that kind of thing happening to anyone she knew. Abuse…it happened, yes, but it never interfered in her life or in the lives of those around her. It couldn't. It could never happen to someone like…

…someone like Nate.

Or could it?

Laureline gulped as she watched Nate bury his head in his arms, half-hiding the ugly bruise that scarred his cheek. She felt a cold chill run down the length of her spine as she watched his body shudder, and all of a sudden, she realized with a terrible fear that he was crying. Or trying desperately not to cry.

She bit her lip.

Not Nate. No, it couldn't be _that_. There had to be some other explanation.

But as she continued to watch him silently, her heart began to plummet, and an awful dread threw itself over her.

* * *

_She saw Him._

_There, beside that other man, stumbling through the dirt with the great burden of wood laid across both pairs of shoulders. _

_Veronica's body shook in revulsion as she gazed at the blood concealing His face, staining it with a condemnation that didn't belong to Him._

_She tremblingly made her way through the crowd, keeping her eyes locked upon that face, grasping onto the hidden beauty amid the agony and brokenness. She had to help Him somehow. Somehow she needed to find a way to get to Him, to wipe away the insufferable pain that had scarred Him and had left Him staring through a veil of anguish._

_The crowd thickened as Veronica drew closer to where He was traipsing slowly through the dusty street. But as she made to push her way through the heaving mass of bodies, she heard several loud cries of distress, and the crowd suddenly began to scatter. She threaded through the mob in confusion, squinting at the dust billowing up from the ground in great sandy clouds. What was going on? What had happened to Him now? She could barely see…_

_And then she caught sight of His face again._

_He had stumbled out from underneath the wood of the cross, absently wandering forward as if He was about to collapse. The soldiers flew up to Him in a rage, bellowing and shouting obscene curses and thrashing their whips mercilessly at Him. He cried out again, stumbling even farther forward and waving His arms desperately in the air to regain His balance._

_Veronica's breath caught in her throat._

_Suddenly, a huge commotion rose up in the crowd, and the screams erupted into yet another deafening wave of chaos, causing the soldiers to rush towards the bystanders with their whips. They swore and yelled and beat their weapons threateningly at the crowd, forcing them back as the chaos grew only worse._

_And He was momentarily left alone, struggling to stand._

_Veronica sensed the opportunity before she even saw it._

_So, gathering her robes in her hands, she seized her chance and rushed towards Him._

* * *

Nate wasn't playing basketball at recess.

Nate always joined in the boys' rowdy basketball games during lunchtime. Laureline had seen him before, bounding around the court in the parking lot as a crowd of younger kids stood close by, wildly cheering the teams on. Laureline had never really liked basketball, so she had never really paid much attention to the games, but she'd seen enough of them from a distance to know that Nate, although he wasn't an excellent player, thoroughly enjoyed every minute of a match.

So the fact that he was nowhere to be seen on the basketball court was more than unnerving.

Struck by that uncomfortable mixture of fear and dread once more, Laureline suddenly began wandering about the playground looking for him. She didn't know exactly _why_ she had all of a sudden become completely absorbed in caring for Nate's well-being, but something inside her told her that she _needed _to, and so she searched diligently, circling the blacktop and the jungle gym and the swings and the field several times before finally giving up and collapsing on a bench.

She'd searched every possible place, and there was still no sign of him. Where could he possibly be? She'd seen him exit the lunchroom with everybody else, so he _had_ to be outside somewhere.

Laureline moved her head back and forth, scanning the area around her. Okay, there was the jungle gym, and next to it were the swings. He wasn't in either of those places. Behind her was the field, stretching out towards the houses in the nearby neighborhood. No, he wasn't playing soccer or football with any of those boys. And she already knew that he wasn't on the blacktop playing basketball. So that was it. There weren't any other places he could be—

—wait.

Out of the corner of her eye, Laureline spotted the brick corner of the school building off in the distance.

That was it. He _had_ to be hiding around that corner.

Laureline jumped off the bench and sprinted towards the building, praying that she was right.

* * *

_She dropped to her knees in pity when she reached Him, as His frail body sunk down to the ground with her. Up close, His face looked even more horrific than it had seemed from afar—the layer of blood was so thick that she couldn't even see His skin. The only things still visible really were His eyes, overflowing with insurmountable sorrow. Veronica felt tears run down her face at the sight of them, and for a moment she forgot why she was even there._

_"Oh, my Lord," she murmured, reaching a hand towards his face._

_She was afraid that He would flinch in pain at her touch, but He didn't. Instead, as she gently pressed her palm against the blood-soaked cheek, He lifted His own trembling hand to rest comfortingly against hers. _

_How could He think to comfort her, when this was_ His _hour of greatest need?_

_Still sobbing, Veronica lifted her hand away from the scarred face and slowly withdrew her white veil from atop her head. Even though He was so covered in blood and sorrow, she could see the beauty of His immaculate face shining past it all, illuminated by the light that somehow still shone in his eyes. If only she could wipe the scars away—then they would all be able to see…to see that the hurt and pain they gave Him could never eliminate the beauty that would always be there…_

_Slowly lifting her veil towards him, her hands shaking, Veronica forced out the only words she could think to say. "Permit me, my Lord…" she whispered, trailing off into tears. _

_He gazed at her solemnly for a moment, and then, He took the veil in hands. The two of them together lifted the cloth to His face and pressed it gently against the wounds, wiping away the stain of at least some of the sorrow. When He was finished, Veronica lowered the cloth from His face and clutched it to her shuddering chest. His face was still marred, but it was cleaner than before, and somehow she could see in His eyes that she had granted Him at least a tiny bit of relief from the suffering. Sobbing even harder, she began to back away from Him, still holding His indescribable gaze. _

_The crowd suddenly surged up from behind her and engulfed her in its wild frenzy, as the soldiers finally returned to mocking Jesus and pushing Him back into His place next to the man helping Him carry the heavy wood. But she hardly heard their screams, hardly saw their arms and heads waving and trembling, hardly felt the dust stinging in her eyes. All she could think of was the sight of His beautiful face—so damaged and yet so pure at the same time. _

_Backing up against a stone wall, she laid her head back and let the tears flow freely for a moment, before opening her eyes again at the sudden remembrance of the veil clutched in her hands. Carefully, she looked down and began to unravel it, holding it out before her._

_She suddenly gasped at the sight that met her eyes._

_There, imprinted upon the white cloth, was a perfect image of His face._

* * *

Laureline crept quietly up to the brick wall, terrified of what might meet her eyes when she peered around the corner. What if he was really crying this time? Or what if she'd been wrong and he wasn't even there, having run away from school or something? Laureline shook the thoughts from her head. She needed to see for herself, and it would do no good chickening out now.

Cautiously, she peeked her head around the corner, and sure enough, there Nate was, sitting against the wall with his knees pulled up to his chest.

She had never seen someone her age look so small and so alone, and her heart surged with pity.

Carefully and as quietly as she could, Laureline rounded the corner and began approaching her classmate, stopping when she was just a few feet away from his face. Oh, that bruise was even nastier up close—looking at it from her angle now, Laureline wanted to throw up at the sight of it. How could somebody ever think to hit a genuinely good kid like Nate so hard that he had to walk around with that revolting thing on his face? Laureline didn't want to think about it.

"Hey," she suddenly said in almost a whisper, at a loss for how to start a conversation.

Nate momentarily looked up, surprised by the company. "Oh." Laureline could barely hear his voice.

"You…you weren't playing basketball." It was a stupid thing to say, but Laureline couldn't think of anything else.

Nate turned his head away from her to stare off at the trees lining the sidewalk ahead of them. "Didn't feel like it," he mumbled almost incoherently.

"Oh." Laureline stared dumbly at the ground, unsure of what to do next. On a sudden impulse, she sat down and scooted up next to him, but not so close as to make either of them uncomfortable.

"Haven't you got something else to do?" Nate grumbled after a short silence.

Even though he sounded mean, Laureline knew that he wasn't intending to be. Poor thing. That bruise had to really hurt.

"None of my friends go to this school," Laureline answered quietly, staring down at her shoes for a moment and then looked back up again.

At that, Nate's posture shifted and he turned to look at her with an apologetic expression in his eyes. "Oh," he said softly. "I…I didn't know that." He suddenly looked embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it," Laureline replied quickly, afraid that she was going to cry at the tone of his voice. He was the one with the bruise on his face. He didn't need to be feeling sorry for her.

"Don't you ever get lonely?"

Laureline shrugged, wishing he'd stop showing concern for her. Why didn't he care about his own pain? "It's okay, I guess," she muttered. "I've kind of gotten used to it."

"Oh." The air around them fell silent again.

Laureline leaned her head back against the bricks and let her eyes roam over Nate's face. She hadn't really thought about it before, but he was quite good-looking—cute, even—and his eyes had a wonderfully gorgeous sparkle to them. Her heart melted suddenly, and she felt something strange wash over her, as if she was really seeing him for the first time. Even with the horrible bruise, he was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful …and Laureline suddenly realized that no bruise or scar, however horrifying, could ever take that beauty away from him.

"Nate?" She felt the voice coming through her throat before she heard it.

"Yeah?"

"You have to tell somebody."

Nate hugged his knees to his chest more tightly. "I…I can't," he whispered after a long silence.

"Nate…"

"I'm scared, Laureline."

She gulped back tears, and suddenly, she couldn't take it anymore. Only half-realizing what she was doing, she threw her arms around the poor boy and kissed his bruised cheek.

Nate's head snapped up in shock at the gesture and he just stared at her for a few seconds.

"Please, you've got to tell someone," she begged, hoping that he couldn't see her tears.

It was at that moment, the two of them staring sincerely into the beauty of each other's eyes, that they became friends.

"If you'll help me," Nate finally whispered, biting his lip.

"I will, Nate," Laureline answered firmly, hugging her friend even more tightly. "I will."


	7. The Seventh Station

_Dear Readers,_

_Finally, halfway through! This one is another one of my favorites...I have to admit I almost made myself cry writing it. This chapter, too, is based somewhat on personal experience...and for those going through the same kind of struggles, I ask God to grant you peace through your time of suffering, as Has often done for me._

_Best Regards from a Bookworm and God Bless,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

**

* * *

_VII._**

_**The Seventh Station: Jesus Falls A Second Time**_

* * *

_"Lord, my God, who am I that You should forsake me? The child of your love -- and now become as the most hated one -- the one You have thrown away as unwanted -- unloved. I call, I cling, I want -- and there is no One to answer -- no One on Whom I can cling -- no, No One. Alone . . . I am told God loves me -- and yet the reality of darkness & coldness & emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul."_

_—Mother Teresa_

* * *

It was Night, blacker than the deepest black, darker than the unfathomable depths of the open sea.

There was no Light anywhere as far as his eye could see. No candle flickering in the distance, no lamp to guide his way. He was utterly lost in a shadowy void filled with nothing but emptiness.

Father Patrick O'Leary leaned wearily against his small bed, clutching his face with his hands. It had been like this every night for months. Kneeling at his bedside, sobbing desperately into his hands as he begged God to free him from the prison of nothingness that had now become his home.

It was not the first time the priest had been plagued like this.

But it was, without any simple doubt, the _worst_.

To the close family of parishioners at St. Lucy's, Father Pat was nothing less than a saint. He had a calm, easygoing, grandfatherly disposition towards anyone he met, and he was a gracious and generous man willing to lend his help to anyone in need of it. He never flew into a temper, nor did he look down upon his church flock as inferior to him. He was a genuinely warm-hearted man with a loving spirit, a true mirror image of Christ Himself, and the parishioners simply adored him for it.

But oh, how the appearance belied the miserable reality.

It would begin one day at Mass, when he would hold the Eucharist high above his head in sacrifice and glory—it was a moment that had often filled him with an incredible sense of something extraordinary that he couldn't quite explain. But one day he would hold the Host of bread above him and he would be met by…nothing. No overwhelming chill of otherworldliness, not even a tiny flicker of joy. Just nothing. No feeling, no love, no elation, no power. And then the nothingness would spread like a thick black cloud of ink, seeping into every corner of his life, staining it with the corrosive blemishes of emptiness. When he would pray, he would feel completely alone and cut off from God, as if there was really nothing there and that everything he believed was just a delusional fantasy. When he had once found beauty in the simple natural world around him, he would merely see the skeletons of trees and grass etched out against a dull grey sky. Whenever he performed an act of service, he would receive no joy or consolation from it; whenever he read the Scriptures, the words just lay cold and flat against the pages, meaningless and dead.

This was the most terrible illness, the most grievous affliction to have ever fallen upon him, and now it was even more serious than it had ever been before.

"Lord, I know You have a purpose in all things," Father Pat wept in agony. "Help me to trust Your Word, Your Promise. There is a reason for my sufferings as there was a great reason for Your own."

Nothing. Silence, emptiness, no answer to calm the tormented man's fears.

"Lord, I beg of You, banish these shadows! I can bear them no longer…" The anguished priest lay his head dejectedly upon the bedcover, sobbing despairingly. "Please, Lord, I know You are here, even when I do not feel You…"

Still nothing.

"My God…" he moaned into the smothering silence, "my God, why have you forsaken me?"

* * *

_Peter peered cautiously out the window of his hiding place at the chaos and confusion below. There, some yards away in the dusty street, was the very man who had been a Teacher, an incomparable Friend and Brother to him for the past three years. Peter choked back tears as the guilt suddenly consumed him again, battering him viciously. Yes, that man, that man who had done more for him than Peter could ever hope to express in words—that was the man he had denied._

_Three times._

_And now here he stood, a coward crouched behind a window, while his greatest friend marched slowly to his death._

_"Master," he murmured through the tears that he could no longer hold back. "Forgive me…"_

_As soon as the words had slipped out of his mouth, Peter was startled by an abrupt rise in the commotion whirling in the street. Instinctively, his eyes shifted downwards to see what had been the cause of the great roar of noise. What he saw knocked the air out of his lungs so swiftly that for a moment, Peter swore that he couldn't breathe._

_He had fallen. _

_His battered form lay prostrate in the dust once more, His arms stretched out on either side of Him as if giving yet another foreboding sign of the death that now lay just hours away. Peter shuddered at the ghastly image of his Teacher, the less-than-human form that had once been the confident and yet gentle man he had followed. How could that…that_ body _in the street be the same man, who only last night had dined with his friends, had spoken to them in wisdom as He had always spoken? How could He have now been reduced to nothing but a mass of bleeding flesh and broken bones sprawled out in the dirt? _

_Peter could bear the sight no longer, and in shame, he quickly turned his head away from the window. The least he could do was force himself to watch the suffering that he had somewhat taken part in through his selfish denial, yet he didn't even have the strength to do that. He couldn't even go down to the street and walk with Him to His death, because he was too afraid of meeting His eyes once more, of being reminded of the terrible thing he had done. _

_Oh, how empty, how lonely and in despair he felt. There was nothing to comfort him, no consolation in his unbearable shame. All the fire and fervor of his faith had been consumed by the darkness of guilt, and Peter couldn't seem to dispel it. _

_"My Lord, my Lord," he sobbed, rocking back and forth with his head in his hands. _

_If only there was some way he could find hope through this. If only there was some way to banish the agony he had brought upon himself and his Master. _

_But for the moment, there was nothing, and he felt himself falling through empty space, falling until he hit the cold ground within his darkened soul. _

* * *

Father Pat clutched the bedcover to his chest like a child would, trying to find at least some kind of solace in its warm contact. But even that couldn't comfort him for long, for he was all too soon reminded of the gaping hole inside him. Why couldn't it go away? Why couldn't God fill it right here, right now? Why did he have to bear this terrible anguish before he felt anything again? And this time, how long would this suffering last?

"Please, my Jesus," he whispered to the darkness surrounding him, "please show me a sign…let me know that You are here…" His head collapsed wearily onto the bedcover again.

It was then that the old priest caught sight of it.

It was nothing out of the ordinary, really. Just his crucifix hanging on the wall above his bed.

But somehow, something seemed…_different_…about it.

It was as if he had never really looked at it before. Father Pat was suddenly consumed with a strange sense of renewed wonder at the small bronze model of Jesus' outstretched arms on the Cross. They were so open, stretched out so far as if He was embracing the entire world with His one selfless act of love, as if He was holding out His arms and waiting for all God's brokenhearted children to come running towards Him. As if He was saying, "I'm right here, Pat. I've been holding you all this time."

Father Pat couldn't believe he had never noticed that before.

It was so simple, and yet so astonishing.

And suddenly…the old priest began to cry.

But this time, they were tears of joy.

"Thank You," he whispered through his sobs of relief, as the great burden was lifted up off his chest. "Thank You."

The Light had returned.

* * *

**_A/N: I do realize that there is an obvious disconnect between the end of Peter's part and the end of Father Pat's part...but I decided not to completely resolve Peter's anguish since he really never seems to get over his guilt until after the Resurrection._**

* * *


	8. The Eighth Station

_Dear Readers,_

_Blessings on this most holy Good Friday...I hope God has touched you in some way today through the love that Jesus showed for us. I, personally, am extremely grateful to Him for having given me something to write for this chapter. It is shorter and slightly different than the previous ones, but I think it fits, and I hope you do too. The scene I created on the way to Calvary is something that has been budding in my head for years now, and it is a part of a much larger original story that I have yet to write. I hope you enjoy it, and God bless you once again._

_Best Regards from a Bookworm,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

* * *

_**VIII.**_

_**The Eighth Station: Jesus Meets The Women of**_

_**Jerusalem**_

* * *

_"Humanity is never so beautiful as when praying for forgiveness, or else forgiving another."_

_—Jean Paul_

* * *

She wept for them.

She wept, because they couldn't see.

Shana had tried to open their eyes, to make them understand, but in the end, she was left only praying for them, hoping that one day they would make the right choice.

Her parents, her sisters…they were surrounded by beauty and glory all around them, and yet they trudged through life as if it had no meaning, as if all that mattered were the twisted thorns and empty promises of material things. As if what was most important was the hustle and bustle of the everyday, the obsession with things so trivial.

But the things themselves—they didn't matter, Shana knew. What shone through them—that was what mattered. But no matter how hard she tried, the ones she loved pushed her away and refused to accept that there was more to life than mere things that disappeared once you ate them up or wore them out after constant fixation with them.

So she prayed. And she wept. For their blindness, in the hope that it would be washed away.

* * *

_Asher clutched me tightly, his little face buried in my chest. I could feel his tears soaking my tunic and his whimpers shuddering against my body. I put a hand on his head and pressed him closer to me, not wanting him to see any more of the dreadful sight before us. _

_We huddled together, my sisters, Mama, Aurelia, Claudia, Salome, and I, trembling with cries of sorrow for the poor man coming towards us up the cursed hill. He was bleeding so much—I had never seen that much blood upon anyone before, and I could feel the pain radiating off Him. And the agony in His face, in his sorrowful eyes, was indescribable. Why was He made to suffer so? This man, who had once healed my brother and my mother, who had given faith to my dearest friend when she had held none. Who had shown nothing but kindness and mercy to all whom He had met. Who had given me back a joy that I had thought I had lost. Why now, was He the one bleeding and dying, being forced to carry a cross upon His back to be crucified humiliatingly before this screaming crowd?_

_As he neared us, I saw Aurelia collapse to her knees, consumed by utter guilt and anguish. She reached out a quavering hand towards Him and wailed pitifully, lamenting His undeserved suffering. I couldn't bear to see her in the dust alone, so I dropped to my own knees, still holding Asher in one arm, and wrapped the other firmly around my friend, clutching her to me as I sobbed in unison with her. _

_But suddenly, as our cries grew louder and more distressed, a weak, cracked voice cut through our weeping, and for a moment, we were stunned into silence._

_It was Him._

_He had stopped right in front of us, and was staring deep into each one of us, reading our souls, pitying our sorrow. I could not bear the sight of those eyes. They were so laden with compassion for us, despite His terrible suffering. How could He think of so many others when He was about to die horribly? I began to cry harder._

_"Dear ones…" he croaked feebly, stretching a frail hand towards us, "do not…weep for me…but for yourselves and for your children…" He drew in a shaky breath. "The time is coming…when…when people will say, 'Lucky are they who never…bore…children…or nursed…them…" He coughed violently, and Aurelia gazed up at Him in desperate sympathy. His eyes suddenly met hers, and she erupted into another fit of sobs. _

_"…they will say…to the mountains," He continued wearily, " 'Fall on us!' and…to…to the hills, 'Hide us!'…if they do this…if they…when…wood…is green…what will happen…when…when it is…dry?"_

_Here He was, pitying our plight rather than His own. He was asking us to pray not for Him but for our own souls… This was too much…I couldn't comprehend it…why? Why did He choose to do this when He didn't have to?_

_"Little one," He suddenly whispered, and I looked down at Asher. His tiny face was suddenly looking into His wounded one, his eyes wide in both horror and awe. _

_"Little one…" the man called Jesus whispered to my little brother again, reaching a scarred hand out to touch Asher's soft one. He squeezed my brother's palm tightly and then closed his fingers in a tiny fist before the soldiers finally noticed that He had paused and began screeching at and whipping Him again. He stumbled forward, and then, He was gone._

_Little Asher was shaking as he stared intently at his fist, the tears dropping onto his fingers. "What is it, Asher?" I asked amidst my weeping. All of us turned to the little boy, still pondering over His words and actions._

_Slowly, Asher opened his palm._

_We gasped. _

_"A flower," he wept, closing his hand around the stem. "He gave me a flower."_


	9. The Ninth Station

_Dear Readers,_

_I realize I am in a bit of a rush to get these last few chapters up, but humbly thank God for miraculously letting me be able to finish all of this. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, and I bid you adieu until the final chapter._

_Best Regards from a Bookworm and God Bless,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

* * *

_**IX:**_

_**The Ninth Station: Jesus Falls A Third and Last Time**_

* * *

"_Pippin: What do you pray for, Father?_

_Charlemagne: Strength. And may God give you the same."_

—_from the musical _Pippin

* * *

Will stared blankly at the paper in front of him, reading the incriminating red letter over and over again until he couldn't take it any longer. Angrily, he crumpled the paper into a little ball and flung it to the floor as he bit back tears. He had tried so _hard _this time, and still, it hadn't paid off.

Why did he even bother anymore? He studied and studied until his brain hurt and his eyes grew weary, yet he still couldn't get anything above a D. Either he was just naturally dumb, or he was doing something wrong. But he couldn't be doing anything wrong—he'd only been doing what the teachers had told him to do. So he was just stupid. That was it.

He'd been such an idiot to think that he could change things. He knew better. He wasn't smart; he'd never be smart. He was doomed to be dumb for the rest of his life, and no matter how hard he tried, he'd never be able to crawl out of that hole and up to the top.

So he laid his head in his hands and sobbed.

* * *

_He stumbled out from underneath the wood, falling towards the rocky outcrop of the hill until He hit the hard ground below with a sickening thud. The soldiers roared with laughter as they watched Him moan terribly and struggle painfully to push Himself up off the ground. Simon staggered underneath the cross as it tilted dangerously towards the ground. _

Come on, _Simon thought as he tearfully watched Jesus clutch the dust in pain. _Just a little farther.

_Jesus dragged Himself a few inches forward, then weakly extended an arm upward towards Simon. Simon immediately grabbed hold of His trembling hand and heaved with all his strength, pulling Him back up towards the cross. He groaned loudly as Simon eased His bloody arm around the wood once more. _

"_Almost there," whispered the Cyrenian, gazing into His pained eyes with compassion. "Almost there."_

* * *

Will didn't know how long he cried for, but by the time his tears had subsided, it had grown dark outside, and he heard his mom calling him downstairs for dinner.

Will sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He suddenly realized that all his crying had made him intensely hungry, and he wanted nothing more than to rush down to the dinner table and shove his mother's scrumptious food into his mouth. But his body remained glued to his bed, unwilling to move for fear that his parents might discover the awful truth about his last test.

He glanced at the balled-up paper now lying on the carpet. He knew he had to show it to them, because Mr. Rajik had asked him to get it signed, but he was paralyzed by an all-too familiar terror. They would yell at him, for sure. They'd scold him for not studying hard enough, although he'd studied for hours for the past three days. "When are you going to show any effort?" they'd say, and he'd be grounded for a week, like he'd so often been before.

But if he didn't show it to them…Mr. Rajik would know, and then the teacher would call them in for yet another conference. That was even worse than being yelled at.

Still, Will didn't want to face anything.

He let his body flop down against the bed, and he squeezed his eyes shut. There was no way out of this. Maybe he was dumb, or maybe he wasn't, but Will knew one thing was for sure. He was going to have to pick himself up and get through this, even if he didn't want to.

"God," he prayed out loud, hoping He could hear him. "I need you right now…"


	10. The Tenth Station

_

* * *

_

_**X.**_

_**The Tenth Station: Jesus Is Stripped Of His Clothes**_

* * *

"_Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and we know we cannot live within."_

—_James Arthur Baldwin_

* * *

Jasmine was running so fast that she didn't even see someone rounding the corner until it was too late. In one swift motion, she barreled straight into the other girl, knocking both of them to the ground. Jasmine's bag slipped from her shoulder, and the books flew out across the floor.

"Oh my—I'm _so_ sorry!" Jasmine gasped, hastily extricating herself from whomever she had just slammed into. "I'll just—"

And then she looked up. And froze dead in her tracks.

She'd knocked into Emma Wilkinson.

Jasmine didn't really know Emma, but she knew for a fact that she did not, in any way, shape, or form, like the girl at all. For one thing, Emma always wore black and distanced herself from the rest of the world, preferring to huddle in a little dark corner somewhere rather than be normal and socialize. For another, she had a habit of staring at you with these frighteningly piercing blue eyes if you dared to make eye contact with her—those eyes made Jasmine shudder if she ever had the misfortune of catching a glimpse of them. They always seemed to be condemning whoever was looking at Emma to a cruel and horrible death, and the idea made Jasmine's blood run cold. Yes, Emma was definitely a person Jasmine and everyone else in the school tried to avoid and were quite successful in doing so.

Well, except now.

Jasmine felt a familiar cold chill run down her spine at the unnerving sight of Emma's gaze, and for a moment she felt paralyzed by utter fear. That is, until Emma's low voice caught her off guard and almost made her jump.

"You gonna pick up your books or not?"

In surprise, Jasmine realized that Emma had knelt down to pick up one of her textbooks and was now staring at her questioningly. Jasmine opened and closed her mouth twice in shock at the fact that the other girl was actually _helping_ her, then suddenly snapped into action and quickly began gathering the other books.

"Yeah, yeah, uh…sorry…again," Jasmine mumbled. She swore that she could hear her heart hammering against her chest.

Emma didn't reply. She merely scooped the remaining books up off the floor and awkwardly shoved them into the bag.

"Um…thanks…" Jasmine said uneasily as she hoisted the bag back onto her shoulder and stood up. She held an unsure hand out to help Emma up.

Emma took Jasmine's hand and Jasmine hauled her upward. But at the last second, the other girl lost her balance and staggered backwards, causing Jasmine to have to leap forward and catch her arms before she fell.

And then she saw.

Her hand had just barely pushed up the sleeve of Emma's long-sleeved shirt when she had grabbed the girl to stop her fall. And there, exposed on Emma's pale skin were several stripes—brown scars stretching up her arm…

Jasmine gasped and instinctively caught Emma's eyes. They were wide in horror.

Jasmine had never seen Emma look so vulnerable, so…human…before.

In a split second, Emma wrenched her arm free from Jasmine's grasp and whirled around, sprinting down the hallway.

"_Wait!" _Jasmine cried desperately, but Emma had already disappeared.

* * *

_Claudia's hands flew to her face in horror as she watched her husband's soldiers shove the man back and forth among themselves, laughing maniacally as He swayed from one way to the other. As they grabbed onto His bloody tunic, His eyes caught hers, and she erupted into sobs. How could he let them do this to Him?_

_The first time she had seen Him, He had looked so different. So bright, so joyful, so full of life and vigor as He had preached in the streets. Claudia had been drawn to the strange yet intriguing man from Galilee at first sight, and as time had passed, she had become more and more absorbed in the teachings of this poor Jewish carpenter whom she was supposed to look down upon with disdain. But after hearing Him speak, she had become so consumed with a desire to hear more of His astonishing words that she had thrown away all sense of societal barriers and had become a devout follower, to the ignorance of her husband, who was too consumed with the duties of his post to notice any change in her._

_Claudia clutched her dress as the jeering soldiers, in one swift motion, tore the tunic apart and jerked it away from His body in one piece. She gasped in horror as the full extent of his wounds was suddenly revealed, and, overwhelmed with grief, she sunk to the ground, wailing. Oh, she had never seen so much blood. It was everywhere, covering his entire body, leaving no spot unmarred. The marks from the whips crossed this way and that—there were so many of them, crossing over one another, breaking His skin in too many places to count. _

_Why was it, that she who had once hidden her pain and wrongdoings behind a dark veil of deceit had to watch His covering be stripped away, when He had nothing to hide? The wounds which marred His body did not belong to Him. They weren't His secrets staining Him so bitterly. No, if anyone held secrets, it was her and those around her, not Him, and He didn't deserve to be humiliated in this way._

"_Forgive me, Lord," Claudia whispered in sorrow, bowing her head as the soldiers threw him down upon the cross._

* * *

Jasmine approached the bathroom stall quietly, gulping as she heard the soft sobs coming from within. Oh, how she hated herself right now! She'd been so stupid to judge Emma just by the seemingly frightening mask she wore around others. Of course there were reasons for why everybody put on a front like Emma did—Jasmine did it all the time, and she knew that everyone, no matter who they were, had different ways of hiding themselves from the world. How could she have been so blind as not to see that what had made Emma seem so unlikeable and ugly before was merely a defense mechanism?

When she reached the stall, Jasmine paused momentarily, guilt and fear overwhelming her. How would Emma react to her being there? What if she didn't want any comfort? What if—

"What do you want?" croaked Emma's voice suddenly from behind the door.

Jasmine sighed and leaned her head against the stall. "Are…you okay?"

"What does it matter?" Emma snapped angrily. "You never cared before."

Jasmine sunk to her knee and sighed again. "I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't," Emma cut her off bitterly. "No one ever bothers to ask."

Jasmine felt a wave of pity surge through her. "Oh, Emma," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. I'm such a moron."

Emma sniffed. "It's just…it's just that…I feel so _alone_…all the time…" She started crying again.

Jasmine slowly reached her arm underneath the stall door and gently took Emma's cold hand in her own. She felt Emma turn in surprise at the gesture. "Emma," Jasmine whispered seriously, "You don't have to be alone anymore. I promise."

Silence.

Then…

"Promise?"

"Yes."

And from that moment on, nothing was hidden any longer.


	11. The Eleventh Station

_**XI.**_

_**The Eleventh Station: Jesus Is Crucified**_

* * *

"_O my people, what have I done to you? In what have I wearied you? Answer me!"_

—_Micah 6:3_

* * *

Kara felt a vicious dagger of pain stab her right through the heart.

How could Natalie have done this to her?

They had been friends for as long as Kara could remember. Inseparable. Sharing everything with each other, even their deepest secrets. Trusting each other completely, relying on each other like sisters.

Yet now Natalie had turned on her.

_It's nothing, really, just a normal phase, _Kara had innocently thought when Natalie had begun to drift away and become more distant. _She'll get over it._

But Natalie hadn't. Instead, she had deserted her closest, most loyal friend for that clique of girls consumed with nothing but ugly disdain for anyone outside their circle. She had left Kara as an outcast, forgetting everything they had ever done together and throwing it away like a heap of garbage.

Kara had been hurt by people before. But never like this.

She had had no idea that losing a best friend could be this painful.

* * *

_Dismus looked down at the gruesome scene below as he hung from his cross atop the hill. He had never seen a man who could take such great suffering with such willing acceptance as Jesus of Nazareth was. Dismus had heard of Him, of the miraculous things He'd done, of the amazing words that He had preached, and had thought that He must truly be a holy man, one sent down from God. But now, watching Him as He screamed upon His cross, Dismus realized that He was much, much more. _

_He had said that He was the Son of God._

_And, looking down upon the agonized face of the man pleading forgiveness for the men driving the nails into his flesh, Dismus knew that He had been telling the truth. _

_Dismus shook with guilty sobs as he watched the soldiers finish plunging the nails into the poor man's body and then as they hauled the wooden cross upright in between him and Gesmas. He cried out in anguish with every slight movement of his bloody body, and Dismas hung his head in shame. _

_Why did _He _have to endure this? He had done nothing wrong, had committed no crime. He didn't deserve any punishment, and yet here He was, crucified between two vile sinners not worthy to even be in His presence. _

"_The Son of God, are you?!" Dismas lifted his head at the sudden sound of Gesmas' grating voice rising above the din of the crowd gathered below. "If you're the Son of God, come down from there and save yourself, Jesus, King of the Jews!"_

_He hung His head at the insult, heaving and gasping for breath. Dismas was flooded with pity._

"_Leave him alone, Gesmas!" he yelled suddenly through tears. "We deserve this! But He…he has done nothing wrong…if anything, He should be the one condemning us!" He turned and met Jesus' eyes, which were stricken with terrible agony and yet swimming with compassion. Dismas choked with heavy sobs as he looked upon the face of this blameless man who was offering His life up for him, although He didn't have to. _

"_Oh, Lord," he whispered in an utter plea for forgiveness, "I only ask of You this one thing…remember me when You enter Your Kingdom…"_

_Jesus held his gaze, His eyes speaking to Dismas without words. Then, He opened his mouth. "Truly…I promise you," he gasped, never breaking eye contact, "that today…you…will be with…me…in Paradise…"_

_It was as if a great weight had been lifted off Dismas' chest, and suddenly, he cared about his pain no longer. _

_He had been healed._

* * *

Kara couldn't hate her.

No, no matter how easy it would be to despise Natalie for what she'd done, Kara couldn't do it. She loved her friend too much.

At first, she had spent sleepless nights crying for her own self, but somewhere along the line, she'd forgotten all about her own pain and could only think of Natalie's foolish mistake. And so now she cried for her, praying that the greatest friend she'd ever had would one day wake up and realize what she'd done.

It didn't matter what the pain had done to her. Kara would do anything for Natalie, even if Natalie had betrayed her.

Kara would move on, of course. But she would never forget.

Natalie meant too much to her for her to stop caring.


	12. The Twelfth Station

_**XII.**_

_**The Twelfth Station: Jesus Dies On The Cross**_

* * *

"_The pain is temporary, but the Gift is lasting."_

—_John Debney, on scoring _The Passion of the Christ

* * *

Grandpa was dead.

Kieran had known before his parents had even told him. He had felt it while lying in bed, praying that God would take care of the man who'd now left them.

He hadn't been able to cry until the wake.

It was only then, when he could finally see the cold face of his grandfather lying still in the casket, that Kieran burst into tears.

It was only then that it hit him at full force, that he realized that his beloved Grandpa was never going to wake up again, never going to wink at him with those mischievously twinkling eyes, never going to laugh or smile at his silly jokes, never going to wrap his arms around him in a big bear hug, never coming back. He was gone, gone, and all that was left was his lifeless body.

So Kieran cried. He cried and cried until he had no more tears left in him to cry.

Only a few months later was he finally able to let him go. It was the single hardest thing Kieran had ever done, to take that picture of him and Grandpa at his last birthday party and let the last of whatever was still clinging to the man slip away.

He fingered the photo tenderly before clutching it to his chest as if it was a priceless treasure. "Goodbye, Grandpa," he whispered softly as he gazed up at the sky.

He knew that somewhere out there, his Grandpa could hear him.

* * *

_Longinus looked on as the crucified man's mother and his disciple approached the foot of the cross. Their steps were steeped in immense sorrow, yet there was something sacred about their solemn procession. The soldier could feel the presence of something otherworldly, something beyond his meager human understanding, riding on the cold wind. That strange wind, which was whistling down to earth with an eerie echo of foreboding from the suddenly darkened sky._

_This man, this bloodied, battered, bruised man hanging wearily upon the great wooden cross, was more than just any man. Longinus had seen that in the faces of the countless people bewailing his torment, in the way they flung themselves to the dust in abject despair at the sight of this tortured soul. It was buried in the depths of his mother's grieving and yet graceful eyes, in the contours of the man's own face, which carried an air of indescribable mystery and unfathomable compassion. Yes, this man was not a mere criminal, not another nameless victim of execution. This man was…something Longinus couldn't put a name to._

_The icy wind gathered ferocity as Longinus watched the dying stranger lean his head wearily to the side and murmur something to his mother and the disciple. At his words, both figures drew even closer to each other, the disciple circling both arms protectively around the woman as if she was his own mother. Longinus felt a sudden surge at the back of his throat and quickly bit it back. He was only a brutish Roman soldier, a man who was supposed to carry no feeling, no compassion for humankind. It would do no good to weep like the other woman standing near the foot of the cross, the younger one who was screaming and crying out hysterically for the man bleeding on the wood._

_And yet, the soldier couldn't seem to stop the deluge of emotion surging through him, the sudden onslaught of pity for this man and for those who loved him._

_Longinus gazed upward and fixed his eyes on the man's anguished face. His breaths had grown labored, his eyes were fighting desperately to remain awake. Longinus suddenly realized that he was nearing the end, that his ill fate lay in the encroaching shadows. Usually, the crucified hung upon their crosses for far longer than this man had before death came over them, but Longinus could sense that the man was teetering on the brink of his death by the expression on his face._

_Peace, it read. Total peace, complete acceptance. There was no resistance in his eyes._

_He was ready. The man slowly lifted his face towards the sable clouds thickening across the sunlight. "It…is finished…" he cried out, his voice echoing powerfully against the wind. "Father…into Your hands…I commend…my spirit!"_

_The last word reverberated across the air, pounding through the empty space and driving into everything and everyone around him._

_And then, silently, slowly, his final breath flew forth from his mouth and re-joined the relentless dance of the wind, his head dropping to his chest in ultimate surrender._

_It was done._

_And then the ground began to shake._

_The world erupted into chaos. The violent rumbling threw Longinus to the rocky ground as the last of the crowd fled terrified from the scene, screaming and shouting over the thunderous clamor._

"Longinus!" _his commander cried fiercely. "Hurry up! Let's get out of here!"_

_Bracing himself against the ground, Longinus looked up and saw that his fellow soldiers were hastily hammering at the other two men's legs, breaking them to ensure swifter deaths. In a flurry of confusion, he staggered to his feet and turned to his commander._

"_He's already dead!" Longinus screamed._

"_Make sure!" the commander yelled, thrusting a spear towards him._

_Longinus swiftly caught the weapon in his hands and glanced up at the dead figure hanging limply from the cross. He stumbled towards it as thunder and lightning crashed against the black sky._

_Then he stopped. And met the eyes of the man's mother._

_Quickly tearing his own eyes away in shame, he reluctantly lifted the spear to the man's side. And, shakily gripping the staff, he plunged the sharp point into the body._

_Immediately, a shower of blood and water spurted out of the wound, raining over Longinus' face and drowning him in an overwhelming flood. And in that single moment, the blood and water suddenly washed away all blindness from his eyes, and the soldier collapsed to his knees, fully overcome with sobs of grief and wonder._

_Then, the confession escaped from his lips, the Truth marching triumphantly on the wind._

"_Truly," he whispered in awe, "truly, this was the Son of God."_

* * *


	13. The Thirteenth Station

_**XIII.**_

_**The Thirteenth Station: Jesus Is Taken Down from the Cross**_

* * *

"_You have to trust me. For this must be done."_

—_Aslan, from _The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe

* * *

Niko cradled the dead bird in his hands, softly stroking the little creature's snowy wings, weeping quietly over the small yet beautiful life that had departed from his most treasured companion.

"Goodbye, little friend," he whispered, rocking the animal against his chest. "I'll miss you."

He embraced his faithful companion one last time, breathing his final tearful farewells as he ran his thumbs across the folded angel wings. The wings which would extend in blissful flight no longer.

It was time to let her go, Niko knew. Her spirit was gone, free to fly up to heaven for eternity, leaving him alone to wander the earth without her.

So, until they met again, he would have to find his own wings.

And then maybe, one day, they would carry him back to her.

* * *

_It was at that moment, when they laid Him in His Mother's arms, that Nicodemus finally knew He was gone._

_His eyes were closed peacefully like a child's in sleep, His mouth silent and still, His head hanging limp against His Mother's arm. Nicodemus wept bitterly as he watched her cradle her dead Son in her lap, as she kissed His pierced forehead tenderly and tearfully whispered a last lullaby to the Life that was no more. The priest could feel his heart aching painfully at the gentle display of selfless love, and he felt as if his very soul had been rent in two. Oh, what a grievous crime this had been, to rob this pure woman of her only Son, to selfishly rip a life away, a life that had shown nothing but compassion for His fellow man. Nicodemus remembered his foolish thoughts and ways that he had once entertained before he had met Him on that fateful day, and he shook his head in remorse. He was the one who was worthy of punishment, not this man. Not Jesus of Nazareth, who had done no wrong but had embraced the world as His own family._

_That the Son of God could choose to lay down His own precious life for those He loved was unthinkable._

_And yet, there He lay, a motionless body in the arms of His grieving Mother, cold and alone and shrouded in death._

_There they were, carrying Him, when He had sacrificed Himself to carry them all._

_There was no sense to it, no logical reason for the horrible evil that had befallen Him._

_And yet, Nicodemus knew that somehow, there _had _to be a purpose. There had to be, somewhere amidst this dreadful darkness, otherwise He never would have done it at all. _


	14. The Fourteenth Station

_Dear Readers,_

_Just so you know, this isn't the final chapter. There's one last one to come later tonight._

_Best regards from a Bookworm and God Bless,_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

* * *

_**XIV.**_

_**The Fourteenth Station: Jesus Is Laid in the Tomb**_

* * *

"…_faith is the substance of things to be hoped for…"_

—_Hebrews 11:1_

* * *

Edmund and Rosa laid were the last to step up to Aunt Nancy's casket and place their roses gently upon it. It was time to finally say goodbye, they knew, the grief weighing down upon them with its heavy burden. Aunt Nancy had been a stronghold in their lives since before they had been born, and to finally have to release her into the hands of God, to bury her below the ground and wait for their joyful reunion was almost too much to ask of them. Yet the siblings knew that they had to do it, to move on, because it was the only way they could remain sane, it was the only way they could truly live up to their beloved aunt's memory.

"Let us pray for our dearly departed Nancy, that the Lord God may keep watch over her soul," the priest prayed solemnly as the cool breeze drifted past them, carrying with it their final wishes for their loved one.

"Amen," everyone replied, some still trembling with tears.

Edmund and Rosa had already cried too much. The wake and the funeral had been so much for them to handle that they had already spent all the tears within them and could cry no more. A sense of peace and simple acceptance had begun to fall over them, the tears of initial shock and painful sorrow having now become a thing of the past. It was time to move on, to press forward, they told themselves. There was no need to cry now.

So as they watched their aunt's body being lowered into the ground, the called their last goodbyes and blew their last kisses of love before turning away and walking forward into the life that lay ahead of them.

* * *

_They laid His wrapped body upon the slab of stone, whispering their final prayers and processing solemnly out into the garden._

_Joseph was the last to exit, his head bowed low and his eyes brimming with the last tears he could cry for his friend. It was finally time to let go, to say farewell to the man who had meant more to them than they could ever dream to express in words. Joseph felt a strong resistance tugging at him, wrestling him away from bidding his beloved friend goodbye, but in his heart he knew that it was the only thing that he could do. To dwell upon Jesus' death would only bring more sorrow, and Joseph knew that He would not want anyone to weep for him much longer. He had always said that this was what he had been sent to do, although Joseph couldn't understand why. So they needed to accept everything as it was, to pay their final respects and move on, forever keeping the love of their friend in their memory._

_Joseph exhaled a quivering sigh of surrender as he turned and took one final glance inside the tomb. He half-expected Jesus to suddenly come walking out laughing, saying that this had all been a terrible nightmare and that all Joseph needed to do was rub his eyes and wake up, and then everything would be all right again. But the deceit of the mind was a cruel one, and Joseph knew that it was finished. It was over and his friend was gone, never to open His eyes and breathe in the air around Him ever again._

_So Joseph, Nicodemus, John, and the soldier called Longinus stepped gravely up to the stone, and, with a great heave of effort, they rolled it over the opening, finally sealing His lifeless body away forever._

_They could only hope that one day, something good would come of this._


	15. Resurrection

* * *

_Dear Readers,_

_I want to thank you for embarking on this journey through Christ's Passion, Death, and Resurrection with me. Although the writing did become a chore sometimes, due to pressed time, I enjoyed having the chance to share this idea with you. I hope you can take something away from it this Easter, and I hope that we will one day all join together with Jesus to share the eternal Life He has promised us. God bless, have a wonderful Easter season, and, as my grandfather used to say, may your guardian angel ride on your shoulder._

_Best Regards from a Bookworm (ALLELUIA!),_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

* * *

_**XV.**_

_**Resurrection**_

* * *

_"For once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of the light— for the fruit of the light is found in all that is good and right and true. Try to find out what is pleasing to the Lord. Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what such people do secretly; but everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything visible is light." _

_—Ephesians 5:8-14_

* * *

The fire is ablaze against the soft lavender and gentle gold of the waning sunset. They gather, encircled around its dancing flames, their hearts slowly beginning to join in the rhythmic beating of the light against the dark. A cool breeze whispers through the joyfully silent crowd, threading among them as if it is a spirit all its own. It blesses them with its tender kiss of life, a kiss which rouses the inner depths of their souls to embrace the New Life before them as the flames embrace the evening air. Daylight is fading fast, but the great burst of morning is just beyond the horizon; the dawn in which there will be rejoicing is steadily approaching.

In the detached and sorrowfully solitary life of the everyday, they are mere strangers to each other, foreign faces amidst a sea of nameless bodies. Yet here, where the firelight illuminates the darkness of their innermost caverns, they are bound together by a common thread of brotherhood in the same Mystery which has encompassed their very beings and breathed life into who they are. Nothing can sever this eternal bond entwining heaven and earth, nothing can dispel the great Light casting itself over them and bathing them in glorious unity.

They are One, inseparable even by death, and their freedom is a priceless gift they clutch to their burning hearts like a poor fisherman would clutch a pearl of great Promise.

* * *

_She collapses to the ground at the shocking sight before her very eyes, mouth agape and heart stunned by the frozen moment of time. Her entire body trembles uncontrollably until she is suddenly sobbing in terrible grief at the selfish desecration that has befallen her beloved friend._

_The tomb is empty._

_She is utterly aghast, entirely helpless, overwhelmed by the sudden horror that has struck her. They have taken Him, stolen His one last chance of peace away from Him, and now there is truly nothing left._

_The only thing she can do is weep._

_So she throws herself against the ground, crying bitterly for Him, lamenting this final loss among so many agonizing losses. They had already taken His life—why had they felt the need to steal Him in death? _

_She is shuddering so violently with wails of lament that she does not hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching. Their presence remains unknown to her until a gentle, oddly familiar voice drifts through her cries._

"_Why are you crying, dear one?"_

_She is consumed by utter grief and cannot even gaze upward at her unexpected companion. "Jesus…Jesus of Nazareth…He was buried…buried here…but…b-but now they have taken Him away!" she cries in sorrow, clutching the grass below her._

"_Where have they taken Him?" the voice continues calmly, its smooth timbre floating upon the morning breeze._

"_I…I don't know…" she whispers, still weeping into the ground. _

"_Mary."_

_She freezes._

"_Do not be afraid."_

_An odd shiver crawls through her spine, inching its way across her body until every part of her being is tingling with the strange and almost wonderful sensation._

_And then…_

…_she looks up._

_His face beams in joyful laughter at the total astonishment that paralyzes her expression. She is gaping, not breathing…time has stopped and suddenly everything she thought was real has turned on its head…_

"_Mary," He jokes gently, "do not act as if you have seen a ghost. Is that what you think of me as now?"_

_Her chin trembles slightly before she suddenly cries out in a squeaky voice, "My Lord!"_

"_Yes, dear one, I am He," He answers, the rapture of joy sparkling in His eyes as He leans down to pull her up off the dusty ground as He had once done before, a long time ago. "Do not fear. I am alive…risen, from the dead. Look here, my wounds have healed." _

_Her eyes widen in awe as He holds out his hands toward her and she sees the holes in His wrists where the nails had once pierced them. Then, her eyes catch sight of the wound in His side and in His feet. They are present, yet they are healed, and the sudden, stunning revelation crashes into her like a wave crashing upon the rocks._

"_Oh, my Lord," she cries, tears of joy spilling down her face as her knees begin to give way._

_He laughs again, a laugh that is lighter and more beautiful than any laugh ever heard by mankind before, as He catches her to stop her from falling. "Yes, I have made things new, as I have promised," He says, looking her in the eye. There is no more sorrow in His eyes, only the fullness of joy that dances like the sunlight through the trees. "But, dear one, you must not keep this news to yourself. Go, find my disciples, and tell them of this Good News. Tell them that the Son of Man has risen from the dead, and that he is yet alive again!"_

_She quivers with the same joy that is dancing in His eyes and nods vigorously. "Oh, yes," she answers in an excited whisper, the emotions bubbling up inside her and threatening to burst. "Yes, my Lord!"_

_And with that, she turns and sprints down the path, the Light of Life exploding from within her._

* * *

The Irish priest, old in outward appearance but filled with the renewed vigor of young life inside him, takes a stick from the fire and lights the great Candle, illuminating the night with the everlasting Flame. From that flame he lights his own candle, and he then begins passing the Light to the boy beside him. A young boy no older than nine, who catches the eye of the little girl next to him, who in turn beams in gratitude for his having once saved her from the cruel violence of her peers.

It doesn't matter how much they hurt him—doing the right thing was still worth it.

The little girl then turns and passes the Light on to a young woman carrying her daughter in her arm. The girl and the woman lock eyes for a second, and the woman smiles, glad that she has somehow helped save at least one precious life like that of the girl before her.

The woman lifts her candle to illuminate the candle of an older girl standing beside her. This girl too, confidently looks the woman in the eye and grants her a resounding "thank you" without ever letting her eyes drift away.

The girl passes the Light to her neighbors, a mother, a father, and a little boy no older than five, who grins joyfully up at her and then at his mother, whose eyes twinkle back in response. Time is short, but when it is filled to the fullest, it is worth the while, no matter whether one has years or days.

The mother smiles knowingly at the next recipient of the Light, a mother like herself, although she is much younger. She graciously takes the Light and passes it to her friend, who is gently cradling her newborn son.

The Light passes from him to a young boy with a face like an angel, free of any bruises or scars. He beams and gladly passes the flame to the girl beside him, who beams back at his beautiful countenance and turns to pass the Light on to another girl beside her.

The girl looks up at her parents and her sisters and smiles as she passes the Light on to them, knowing that her prayer has been answered and that they can now see the great beauty in the simplicity of a tiny, flickering candle flame.

The Light extends to another boy, who grins proudly as he accepts the flame, his mind giving thanks over and over again for that B+ he finally got on his last English test. Maybe he isn't dumb after all. All he needed was a little more trust.

He passes it on to two girls, who could not be more different in appearance, but who seem to be bound at the heart in friendship. They smile warmly at each other, seeing beyond the masks they have finally learned to shatter, and pass the Light on to the young girl beside them.

She returns their gentle smiles as she accepts the Light, reminiscing of a similar bond she had once shared. Even though it is still broken, she has learned to mend in other ways, and grins broadly at her companions, a boy with a picture of his grandfather in his suit pocket and another boy with a snowy white feather poking out from the pocket of his own suit.

The boys eagerly take the Light she offers them and hand it over to two siblings, a brother and a sister, who glance in the direction of their aunt's resting place with tearful smiles before turning and passing the Light on to their neighbors.

There are so many of them gathered there on this Holy Night, passing the flame of Light from one soul to the next, each guiding the way for another until the entire church is glowing with dancing flickers of gold. The old Irish priest smiles warmly upon the flock that God has granted him, and then turns to march victoriously towards the altar, voice breaking into the blissful song of Morning.

A New Day has begun.

**EXORDIUM**

**_(The Beginning)_**


End file.
